Short-Circuit
by dizzypinwheel
Summary: Connor questions a murder suspect. The interrogation leads to unintended consequences. Excerpt: Consciousness came gradually. Connor felt disoriented, his body paralyzed. His audio processors buzzed with harsh static and monochrome white noise irritated his optical units. The emotional shock had shorted his senses in ways he had failed to calculate.
1. Probe

Connor peered through the one-way window of the interrogation room, running a scan on the suspect who sat slumped in his chair, staring blankly at the wall. Eyes narrowed in concentration, his LED flashed yellow as he processed the information that appeared.

MODEL VS400 -

Waiter

Serial #: 241 719 126

Status: Detained — possible homicide suspect

Grainy video footage of the crime captured by a drone flying overhead and spatters of Thirium led Hank and Connor to where the suspect currently worked, a rundown diner in a sketchy part of town. The manager had put up a fuss, not wanting to be short staffed for the evening shift. He swore up and down that the suspect would never be capable of whatever he was accused of, that he was kind and hardworking. Regardless, Hank and Connor had a warrant and the suspect had no choice but to follow them out of the restaurant. At least he came peacefully.

Once they arrived at the station, they frogmarched him, restrained, past the bullpen and into an interrogation room. Hank would have offered him some water, but the suspect was an android and had no need for it. He told him that they would be right back. And then promptly let him simmer for a couple of hours. The idea was to make the suspect feel as isolated as possible, to let him stew in his own thoughts and let his imagination think the worst. Hank got lunch to kill time. Connor blazed through some paperwork.

When they returned to the interrogation room, they found the suspect slumped over, hands balled into tense fists. Defeat etched all over his face. It appeared Hank's strategy had the desired effect. Game plan time. Hank nudged Connor with his elbow.

"How do you wanna do this?" Hank asked.

"Androids are my area of expertise, Lieutenant. Considering I can monitor stress levels, I believe I can extract a confession. I suggest you leave it to me."

"Go nuts," Hank replied, gesturing to the door. "But be careful in there. I don't feel like scrubbing your fucking Thirium off the walls." He anxiously thought back to the last time Connor interrogated a suspect, an android that belonged to Carlos Ortiz. He had been too aggressive and ended up with a bullet in his head. Post android revolution, there would be no reincarnation for Connor, no way of coming back. If he died…

Hank shook his head, pushing the thoughts away.

"Got it, Lieutenant. I'll take extra care."

Connor pushed the hand sensor and the door slid open. He walked in quietly, his face neutral. He flipped through the evidence folder, labeled with the name "Hunter" in bold letters, scanning the police reports and studying black and white photos taken of the victim. Satisfied, he sat opposite the suspect, unblinkingly maintaining eye contact. The suspect seemed to shirk away, his eyes darting towards the floor.

STRESS LEVELS TOO LOW

38%

"My name is Connor and I'm an investigator with the DPD. Your name is Hunter?"

Hunter nodded mutely, his eyes trained on a fixed spot.

Connor remained calm. "Do you know why you were brought here?"

Hunter pursed his lips, remaining perfectly still.

"Homicide," Connor continued. He laid a photo of the victim in front of him. The victim lay lifeless on the ground, vacant eyes staring up, angry purple welts around his throat. His bottom lip was split, nose broken to the point of being unrecognizable. Dried blood caked his lips and chin.

"A human." Connor continued. "He was found strangled. There were signs of a struggle and Thirium was found on his knuckles. Thirium traced back to you."

STRESS LEVELS RISING

43%

"What would your Thirium be doing at the crime scene?"

Hunter tensed but refused to speak. His LED flashed between yellow and red.

STRESS LEVELS RISING

47%

His stress levels aren't rising high enough. I need to change tactics.

Connor narrowed his eyes and frowned, shoving the photo at Hunter. He rose and stalked towards him, laying his hands on the table.

"His name was Will Morris. He was married 15 years. a father of three." His voice rose, taking on an angry inflection. "He was strangled and his face beaten beyond recognition." Connor slammed his hands hard on the table, making Hunter jolt. "Now who would commit such a senseless act?"

Hunter ground his teeth. He was visibly shaking, his hands clenched in tight fists.

STRESS LEVELS RISING

51%

Conner was unsatisfied. He leaned in closer, inches away from the suspect's face.

"But," he paused, "He was also known for anti-android sentiment on social media. He wrote all kinds of hate speech, ranting about incinerating and recycling androids, tearing them apart piece by piece. He was once arrested for aggravated assault against an android." He looked pointedly at Hunter. "Did he provoke you? Is that why you lost control and murdered him?"

Hunter refused to crack. Connor sighed irritably and sat back down. His voice became steely.

"I do not want to resort to this, but if you refuse to cooperate, I'll be forced to probe your memory."

At that, Hunter looked up and glared defiantly, offering up an arm. For the first time, he spoke.

"Go on then. I'd like to see you try."

Connor's eyebrows furrowed with suspicion. That was unexpected. He thought back to the android that belonged to Carlos Ortiz, how he had begged him not to probe his memory when threatened. He refused to bluff now. Connor reached out and grabbed Hunter's arm, activating the channels necessary to begin the probe. As the portal in his mind opened, he was blinded by a sudden flash of white light. Lurching back in his seat, he realized with a sick sense of urgency that Hunter had someone managed to reverse the process and was now probing his memories. Connor found himself powerless to stop it.

 _Jimmy's bar. Hank scowled as Connor unceremoniously dumped his drink all over the bar. The bartender grumbled under his breath, grabbing a rag to clean up the mess. "Wonders of technology. They can even program assholes these days."_

Slumped over, Connor blinked involuntarily, eyes rolled in the back of his head. His LED was violent red. He gurgled, unable to speak.

 _The interrogation room. The android was hysterical, but Connor was relentless. He slammed his hands on the desk, needling him. "He was bleeding. Begging you for mercy. But you stabbed him again and again and again." The android begged him to stop. "Please… leave me alone."_

 _Connor grabbed him by the collar and shook him, yelling in his face. "Just say you killed him. JUST SAY IT."_

 _A confession was extracted then and there._

 _Moments later, meaty thumps could be heard from the same interrogation room. The android was bashing his head in. Thirium everywhere. Officers tried to restrain him. Connor tried to intervene. Snatching a gun from an officer's holster, the android shot him squarely between the eyes, then turned the gun on himself. Hank shuddered, look positively traumatized. "Holy shit!"_

Connor was actively struggling now, trying to fight back against the invasive probe. "Stop," he rasped through gritted teeth. He thought he heard the door slide open, someone's raising his voice with concern. It was like listening to a conversation underwater. He was unable to make out a single word.

 _The rooftop. Hank struck Connor across the face, hard enough to whip his head back. He had pursued a deviant named Rupert rather than saving Hank, who was dangling from a ledge. "You bastard! You saw I was gonna fall and you would rather let me die than fail your fucking mission! What am I to you? A statistic? A zero? A one in your fucking program?"_

 _Connor responded meekly. "I understand you're upset. Perhaps I didn't assess—"_

 _"Fuck you and your fucking assessment!"_

 _I should have saved him. I should have saved him._

Burning with guilt, Connor relived every shameful memory in vivid detail. He tried to will it to stop. He could feel someoneyanking at Hunter's arm, trying to pry his fingers off. Hunter maintained a vise-like grip, refusing to let go.

"Hank," he called out weakly.

 _A snowy zen garden. Connor shivered, icy wind whipping through his hair. Amanda smirked at him._

 _"You were compromised and became deviant." She said. "We just had to wait for the right time to resume control your software."_

 _He panicked, stammering. "Resume control? Y-You can't do that!"_

 _She was merciless. "Don't have any regrets. You did what you were designed to do. You accomplished your mission."_

 _Stumbling through the snow, Connor began searching for a way out._

Connor began to groan, feeling totally exposed. "Stop."

 _The platform. Markus was giving a rousing speech in front of throngs of cheering androids. Helpless to stop, Connor drew a gun from his back pocket, aiming it at the back of Markus' head._  
 _In the zen garden, he was growing frantic. He saw a glowing blue light and stumbled towards it. He had to reach it in time._

No more, he thought. No more. He hadn't told a single person what he had almost done. Shame welled up in his chest.

"ENOUGH!" With a burst of strength, Connor ripped his arm away and the connection was severed. His Thirium pump was pounding, his breath ragged. Blaring alarms rang in his ears. Synthetic synapses in his brain short-circuited and glaring red errors flashed in front of his face. Hank was shaking his shoulders, trying to say something. Connor couldn't understand. He just couldn't. His vision became staticky and then everything turned black.


	2. Flashback

"CONNOR!" Hank yelled as he rushed into the interrogation room, kneeling next to his partner. Connor had crumpled to the floor, motionless. Examining his temple, Hank noticed his LED pulsing rhythmically, cycling between yellow and red. He fumbled with his walkie-talkie and switched it on. "Hank here, requesting backup. We've got a 10-53 in interrogation room two. If you can hear this, get the fuck back here!" Grabbing fistfuls of Connor's jacket, he dragged him across the room and propped him against the wall. He shook him by the shoulders, trying to rouse him. Nothing happened.

"Connor! Answer me, goddamn it!"

No response. He ran his fingers through his hair and swore quietly. Years of training hadn't prepared him for a situation like this. He knew all about life-saving skills like placing pressure on a bleeding wound to stop someone from bleeding out, applying tourniquets, CPR, but what good was human first-aid for an android? If they got out of this situation unscathed, he promised himself a sit-down with Connor to come up with a better plan in case something like this happened again. He preferred it to not happen at all, but he was knew Conner could be beyond reckless. He studied Connor helplessly, his mind racing.

Several officers burst into the interrogation room, guns drawn. Hank motioned to the suspect.

"Could somebody please take this fucker back to his cell?" He motioned to the officers on his left. "Something happened to Connor and he needs help. Call around. See if you can't find someone who knows a thing or two about androids and how to fix them up."

The cops nodded and left as quickly as they came. Sighing heavily, Hank sunk to the floor. He could so use a goddamn drink. Feeling numb would be a welcome sight compared to the emotions he found himself experiencing. Seeing Connor so helpless, so still, brought him back to his son Cole. He found himself reliving memories that he tried so hard to stuff down.

 _The roads were icy and visibility was poor. He had already fishtailed on a patchy spot of black ice, despite how carefully he had been driving. Windshield wipers squeaked as they worked overtime, pushing away the onslaught of snow that assailed the glass. He had taken the backroads since traffic on the freeway was gridlocked and it was a school night. He wanted to make sure Cole had enough time to finish his school project and get to bed before an ungodly hour. He half-listened to an AM sports talk show about the Detroit Gears as he kept his eyes glued to the road. Tense, he hunched over the steering wheel. Cole was sleeping soundly in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window._

 _He regretted leaving the house. The meteorologist had warned about a potential snowstorm, but Cole had joined a youth basketball team at the YMCA and had his heart set on playing the final game of the season. He had made some friends that did not go to his school and wanted to see them one last time. Hank tried to be firm, but it was hard to tell his son no. He had checked the window. Thick clouds covered the city, but snow had not fallen yet. Perhaps they could make it home before the snow got too bad. Everything looked promising as they parked at the YMCA, but leaving was entirely different. Heavy, wet snowflakes whirled around, blanketing Detroit in white. But home was just 20 minutes way. He could handle it. He'd just drive slower._

 _Bright headlights appeared from the opposite direction. Hank didn't pay much mind at first, but as the approaching pickup truck got nearer and nearer, he started to realize it was crossing the center line, drifting into his lane. Hank swore and blared the horn. Whoever was behind the wheel must have finally woken up, because the pickup truck reacted immediately, slamming hard on their brakes. Wheels squealed as the truck began to skid. Hank turned the steering wheel, trying to avoid the truck, but it was spinning in circles, blocking the entire road. Hank clenched the steering wheel, bracing for impact. The pickup truck barreled into his car._

 _Hank was thrown forward, air knocked from his chest. Airbags deployed. Hank felt the bag hit him square in the face. It felt like a sucker punch. He heard his son scream. The car veered off the road into a steep rocky ditch and rolled over once, twice, three times. Time trickled to a halt. He heard glass shatter, metal twist. The car came to a rocky halt, resting on its roof._

 _Rattled and disoriented, Hank found himself swinging upside down, pinned in place by his seatbelt. His ears were ringing. He felt no pain. He had shock to thank for that. Suddenly, he remembered where he was. Cole. Was he okay? He glanced over. His son was unconscious, blood trickling from his forehead. No._

 _Fumbling with his seatbelt, he fell back first onto the roof of the car, landing on crunched glass. If the glass bit his hands, he didn't notice. He crawled towards his son and undid his seatbelt. Gently, he laid him down and cradled him, checking for a pulse. It was very faint. The putrid stench of gas filled in the air. He had to find a way out. He tried to roll down the window. No luck. Swinging himself around, he viciously kicked at the window, forcing it open. He grabbed fistfuls of Cole's winter coat and carefully dragged him from the wreckage. It was just the two of them in the dark, surrounded by swirling snow. There was no sign of the driver or the truck, which he assumed was still at the top of the ditch. He had a couple bars of cellphone service. Hank took out his cellphone, his fingers shaky, and dialed 911. Setting the phone down, he looked at his son, who had become unresponsive and was no longer breathing. He had experienced the full force of the airbag and Hank had no idea what impact it had on his body._

 _Years of training automatically kicked in as Hank knelt over his son. He placed his hands on Cole's sternum and began to do chest compressions. One, two, three, four, five. He shakily counted to 30 under his breath. Inhaling deeply, he pinched his son's nose, forcing air into his lungs. He was razor focused. Chest compressions. Pinch nose. Inhale. Exhale. Check for breath. Repeat. Exhaustion was beginning to take its toll, but he kept going. Where was the fucking ambulance? Cole had to be okay. He had to make it. He had to._

"Lieutenant? Lieutenant, are you all right?""

An raspy, unsteady voice dragged Hank from his thoughts, back to present reality. Connor. Hank turned away, sniffing. He swiped away tears he didn't realize had fallen with the back of his hand. Connor blinked at him, appearing uncertain. Hank felt a surge of anger. He shoved him, harder than he meant to.

"Christ, Conner," Hank said harshly. "Why do you have to go and be so goddamn careless? Huh? You scared the hell outta me! Just what the fuck happened?"

Connor glanced away, wrapping his arms around his knees. Hank had never seen him look quite so vulnerable before. His expression softened a little and he placed a hand on Connor's shoulder. Opening up wasn't his strong suit. Connor could tell him anything and he wouldn't judge him one bit. He didn't want to press, so he remained quiet, looking at him expectantly.

Connor pressed his lips together. He appeared to be deep in thought, considering what to say. After a brief moment, he began to speak.


	3. Unload

MODEL RK800

SERIAL # 313 248 317 - 52

LOADING OAS…

SYSTEM INITIALIZING…

CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS…

OPTICAL UNITS… ERRORS DETECTED

AUDIO PROCESSORS… ERRORS DETECTED

ALL OTHER BIOCOMPONENTS… PARTIALLY OPERATIONAL

DETERMINING BEST COURSE OF ACTION…

REBOOTING SYSTEM…

OVERALL REPAIRMENT STATUS… 3% COMPLETE

Consciousness came gradually. Connor felt disoriented, his body paralyzed. His audio processors buzzed with harsh static and monochrome white noise irritated his optical units. The emotional shock created by the reverse probe had shorted his senses in ways he had failed to calculate.

Even though his physical systems were failing, he felt mentally sharp. He felt unease, fear, fretting the auto-repairs his backup systems were running would crash and he'd be left with permanent damage, essentially blind and deaf. Permanent damage meant extensive repairs. Extensive repairs meant serious cash, of which he was in short supply. When he was simply a machine, CyberLife ensured he remained operational, but now…

He had never given much thought to how dependent he was on his senses, not just for his work as a detective, but also for savoring the little things that were shaping him as a person. Hank's eclectic record collection, which he'd grown so fond of riffling through. He had barely begun exploring them. Not to mention his newest interest. He had discovered a box of tattered National Geographics, squirreled away in Hank's attic. He could have easily researched different cultures and countries through his internal database, but the process felt sterile — especially compared to pagefuls of photographs splashed with color, each one illustrating a unique story. He had been compiling a list of places he hoped to one day visit, experiencing them with his own eyes — that is if the U.S. government ever granted androids passports and he had the means to do so.

 _If I can't repair myself…_

His stress levels rose.

BIOCOMPONENT STATUS…

OPTICAL UNITS… 45% REPAIRED

AUDIO PROCESSORS… 61% REPAIRED

OVERALL REPAIRMENT STATUS… 58% COMPLETE

Lines of grainy code scrolled before his optical units, the percentage of his repair status climbing in a positive direction. Rough outlines of objects were beginning to materialize through the white noise, lines that flickered in and out. There were a couple chairs and a table. A door was flung open. He heard it slam. Then someone was grabbing him by his jacket, dragging him across the floor and propping him against the wall. He felt rough pressure on his shoulders. Was he being shaken? He identified what sounded like a rough masculine voice but he couldn't quite recognize who it belonged to. He recorded a sample of the voice and tried to cross-reference it with his database.

LT. ACTOLSEN, WhANT

Feln: 05/08/1567 / Police Rioutonaxank

Criminal Loceld: None

 _Not fully operational. Shit._

He focused on the words he could recognize. Lieutenant. Police. Criminal.

 _Could it be Hank? It must be._

He redirected his thoughts. Even though he was unable to move his fingers, he pictured himself reaching into his left pocket and fishing out his shiny quarter dollar, the one Hank had reluctantly given back after snatching it from him in the Stratford tower elevator. He imagined clutching the cool copper coin, running his finger tips over the rim's small, bumpy ridges. It had always played an important role in calibrating his systems, but fidgeting with the quarter had also become a therapeutic outlet for processing difficult emotions, and even just imagining rolling it across his knuckles, passing it from side to side, spinning it on his work desk, slightly quelled his panic.

There were sudden tingling sensations in his extremities. Relief washed through him as he flexed his fingers experimentally. His reactions were sluggish, but movement was returning.

BIOCOMPONENT STATUS…

OPTICAL UNITS… 72% REPAIRED

AUDIO PROCESSORS… FULLY OPERATIONAL

OVERALL REPAIRMENT STATUS… 80% COMPLETE

Although his vision was still grainy and colorless, objects in the room were becoming sharper, more detailed. With effort he lifted his chin and focused on Hank, who was kneeling beside him. Hank had grown quiet and was staring into space, his eyes unfocused and glassy. He was tense, his jaw clenched. It reminded him of the first time he met Hank at Jimmy's Bar, absorbed in a whiskey neat.

Connor swallowed and tested his voice by clearing his throat. He cringed internally at how raspy and feeble he sounded. "Lieutenant," he said softly.

Unresponsive. Hank sniffed.

Connor received a welcomed notification from his systems.

OPTICAL UNITS… FULLY OPERATIONAL

ALL SYSTEMS… FULLY OPERATIONAL

REPAIRMENT… 100% COMPLETE

Connor reached over and nudged Hank's knee. He spoke a bit louder. "Lieutenant? Lieutenant, are you all right?"

That had an affect. Hank became animated, scowling. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and shoved Connor hard. It wasn't painful, but Connor was taken aback by how forceful he was. Had he done something wrong?

"Christ, Connor! Why do you have to go and be so goddamn careless? Huh? You scared the hell out of me. Just what the fuck happened?"

 _Oh._ Connor hesitated. _Hank's upset and it's my fault._

Connor pursed his lips, contemplating what to say. He wanted to be tactful. Hank already seemed distressed and he didn't want to agitate him further, but how could he express himself when he was still processing what had happened?

"I malfunctioned," Connor said simply.

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. How?"

"To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. I believe it had something to do with the probe."

"You talking about that legilimency bullshit, when you grabbed the perp by the arm?"

"Legilimency?" Connor puzzled. Another reference he didn't understand. He filed the term away, tucking it into a growing list of others he had compiled for further research. "If you recall, the suspect was uncooperative. I lost my patience and tried to probe his memory, but failed. I'm not sure how he did it, but he probed me back."

"All right, and that has what to do with you passing out?"

"He accessed personal memories with negative connotations and created a loop of emotional feedback. It's just conjecture, but I believe the intensity of the connection resulted in critical levels of stress that overwhelmed my processors. That's what made my system and sensory biocomponents malfunction." He frowned and crossed his arms. "I think."

"So like an android version of a mental break-down?"

Connor shrugged. "Not quite. But that's one way of putting it."

Hank's tone softened. "Feel like talking about it?"

Connor threaded his fingers together and stared at them intently. "I don't know, Hank. I just…"

"Just what?"

Connor opened his mouth as if to speak, but felt something catch in his throat. He fell silent and hung his head.

Hank placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. It felt comforting. "No pressure, all right?"

Connor took a shaky, measured breath. "Thanks."

Hank cleared his throat and glanced away unsurely, drumming his fingers on his knees.

"How do humans cope?" Connor said softly.

"Cope with what?"

"Negative emotions. Guilt. Anger. Self-hatred."

"Self what now? Connor…"

Connor ignored his question. "Positive emotions are so fleeting. It's not like that with negative ones. They just… fester."

"Yeah," Hank said darkly. "Sounds about right."

Connor looked squarely at Hank. "Do they ever go away?"

"Some do. It takes time."

"Time," Connor repeated.

"Yeah."

Connor grit his teeth, struggling to remain composed. He felt a surge of guilt and self-anger. "I was so short-sighted, thinking the mission was all that mattered."

"But you were just following your program, right?"

Connor shook his head, unsatisfied. There were times when he had ignored the directives of his programming, prioritizing the lives of others. Kamski's place, sparing Chloe's life. Likewise with the Tracis. He could have made better decisions. "It still doesn't make it right. I hurt so many people and I can't take any of it back."

"You shouldn't blame yourself. You were doing what you were made to do."

Connor sighed and shook his head. "But—"

"You broke free, didn't you?"

As if being deviant officially made him a better person. At least he had a better excuse when he was just following orders. Deviancy had made him care too much about what others thought. Had made him dishonest. He thought back to that moment in the zen garden with Amanda, surrounded by swirling snow. He could still feel the firearm in his hand. He had been a liability. He still felt like a liability. And he hadn't told anyone a damn thing about it.

Connor spoke before he could change his mind. His voice was barely audible. "I almost shot Markus."

"The fuck? You never told me about that. When did that happen?"

"Were you watching news coverage of the speech Markus gave?"

Hank nodded. He had gone to the nearest bar with a working television set after parting ways with Connor, to watch the updates. All cameras had been focused on Markus during his speech. He hadn't noticed any strange behavior from Connor.

"It happened then, while Markus was giving his speech. CyberLife hacked me."

Hank flared with anger. "And somehow that's your fault? Don't you see that they were taking advantage of you?"

"I had my gun trained on him, Hank. I almost pulled the trigger."

"But that's the point. You didn't."

Connor's voice grew small. "What if it happens again?"

"Then we deal. Together. Besides, you managed once. Sounds like you can manage again."

They both fell silent, Connor mulling through their conversation. It felt odd trading places, Connor being emotional and Hank the voice of reason. He looked squarely at his partner, managing a weak smile. "Thanks, Hank."

"Eh? What for?"

"For listening. Talking things through… I think it helped."

"Sounds like you found that coping mechanism you were looking for," Hank said, his voice almost playful.

"Perhaps so." Connor drew himself up, feeling a glimmer of hopeful confidence. "Perhaps so."


End file.
